


This is Different, You and Me

by mystivy



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-10
Updated: 2013-08-10
Packaged: 2017-12-23 01:33:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/920436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mystivy/pseuds/mystivy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This begins with the plane ride from Montreal to Cincinnati in 2007 and stretches over the following four weeks till the end of the US Open.  Roger and Rafa gradually become closer, till the final of the US Open looms and they have to play each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This is Different, You and Me

**Author's Note:**

> The first Fedal fic I ever wrote. Another one from the archives so that they're all here on AO3.

The rear compartment of the plane was full of people when he and Mirka arrived. His own people and some of Rafa’s; Tonideep in conversation with someone, miming a forehand with his left hand, twisting his wrist for the topspin. And in the front compartment was Rafa, uncharacteristically quiet, slung across one of the deep, leather chairs of the jet, one finger toying with a lock of hair while he concentrated fiercely on the safety instructions. Xisca sat beside him looking out the window, watching something he couldn’t see. The front compartment was smaller than the rear, though Roger avoided the word “intimate”. It was intimate when he travelled with Mirka alone. He thought of the quiet times they’d had in cabins just like this, in the air between tournaments, while the sun sank behind one horizon or rose up from the other, depending on which direction they travelled. He held Mirka’s hand a little more tightly, bringing her close to him as they made their way to the seats opposite Rafa and Xisca.

“You think we are going to crash?” said Roger, breaking into the silence. He threw his onboard bag behind the wide leather chair.

Rafa smiled, that big, broad one that seemed infectious. He threw the safety instruction sheet to the table between the seats and stood. “Rogelio,” he said, throwing his arms around Roger as he always did when they met. Roger had once found it too close, too much, too Mediterranean for his Swiss sensibilities, but these days he pulled Rafa in close before letting go. “Thank you for the ride,” said Rafa. Xisca, pulling back from kissing Mirka’s cheek, echoed the sentiment.

“No problem,” said Roger affably, shrugging a little. “Lots of room,” he said, sitting down beside Mirka, opposite Rafa. He felt expansive, welcoming, and smiled broadly. “We should be leaving soon,” he said. “And we’ve got sushi for lunch, I hope you like it.”

They chatted of nothings as the jet taxied out onto the runway, Roger and Rafa commiserating each other over their losses in Montreal, shrugging it off. The sky outside was grey, full-bellied clouds hanging ominously over the tower of the ugly, concrete airport. Roger looked forward to breaking through them, reaching the sunlight overhead. It matched his mood. He was slightly puzzled by his happiness, given the loss of the day before, but it was because it did not matter, he reasoned. A glitch in the season. He caught Rafa’s eye, saw his mouth turning up into a slow, subtle smile, and figured he felt the same.

It was good to be on the way to Cincinnati. 

 

Cincy was cloudy and humid. Nothing near as hot as Dubai, but grey, and Rafa retired in the second round. Roger saw him waiting for his car outside the Tennis Centre just as he himself was arriving for the evening session. Rafa was rubbing his forearm, frowning, his hair falling around his face, still sticky after his post-match shower. Nothing dried in this soupy air.

“Rafa,” he called, walking towards him from his own car. Rafa looked up from his arm, his frown clearing a little. Roger put his bag down from his shoulder and threw an arm around Rafa. “Sorry to hear about your arm,” said Roger. He could feel Rafa’s skin against his own where their cheeks touched, could feel Rafa’s hand on his stomach. A gesture he knew from so many nets, so many matches. Rafa smelled of shampoo from his hair and mentholatum from his arm and a deep-down smell of something else, the smell of sunlight and clay, a smell that was intrinsically Rafa.

Rafa pulled back and shook his head a little, as if shaking off the match. “Will be okay,” he said, his mouth pressed into a half-smile.

“Well, you’re getting a nice rest now before New York,” said Roger. His hand still rested on Rafa’s shoulder.

“Yeah,” said Rafa, smiling now for real. “Maybe now I have chance, huh?”

“You think you can take me this time?” replied Roger, grinning.

“Je vais faire mon max,” said Rafa, looking up at Roger with a glint in his eye.

Roger laughed, squeezing Rafa’s shoulder. “Are you going there now?” he asked. “To New York?”

Rafa shrugged. “I don’t know. Wait and see to decide,” he said. “Probably.” Rafa’s tournament Mercedes glided to a halt beside them.

“Well, I’ll see you there,” said Roger, his hand falling from Rafa’s shoulder. “Take care of your arm,” he added, hoisting his bag again.

Rafa nodded. He paused for a moment, leaning against the open door of the car, and looked at Roger speculatively, something hidden behind his eyes. Roger held his gaze. Rafa then smiled a little, exhaling a short breath, with something close to amusement, thought Roger, but not quite. Finally, Rafa looked away. “See you,” he said, touching Roger’s forearm with his fingertips before climbing into the car.

Roger watched it pull away, and only when the car was out of sight did he remember that he was about to play a match. He shook his head, clearing it a little, and walked inside.

He figured Rafa must have gone straight to New York, because he didn’t see him around Cincy after that. He kept playing, kept winning, taking it to the line against Hewitt but winning anyway. He wasn’t in top gear yet, despite what he said to the press. It was a disappointment, he felt, that one more tournament would slide by without facing Rafa across the net, without facing someone that made him play his very best, play from his guts, from his heart, not just his head. 

It was in the quiet moments in the locker room before the final that it struck him out of nowhere. There is a particular charge in the air when two men face off across the net, he knew. He was used to it, that peculiarly singular focus on one other person, a focus most people only felt with lovers. To watch another man’s eyes, his body, to read his mind; who could fail to feel something erotic in it? Of course, it was meaningless. A few hours of match play and it was gone, dissipated with the final shot, with a shake of hands. Even, in the beginning, with Rafa.

Not anymore.

 

On Monday, he went straight to New York from Cincinnati. He arrived at Flushing Meadows on Tuesday morning and headed to the practice courts. He felt on edge. The sky overhead was blue, as blue as the courts themselves, and it spread over New York like a dome holding in the air. The city was sweltering, and it was little better out here in the expanse of the courts. Still, nothing compared to Dubai, and he was the only top seed practicing in the hammering sunshine of the early afternoon. Either the others were not yet around, or they were avoiding the heat. He wondered where Rafa was.

It was Thursday before he saw him. The hotel was uptown, away from the tourists and fans. He had just returned from practice and was about to close the door of his suite when Rafa opened the door opposite. They just stood for a split second, their eyes locking, before Rafa smiled again, that big spreading smile that made it impossible not to smile back. “Rogelio,” said Rafa, crossing the corridor and embracing him, a hug that did not hide the strength in his arms. The door of his suite slammed shut behind him.

“Rafa,” said Roger, returning the hug, laughing a little. “I didn’t think you were here yet. I haven’t seen you at the practice courts.”

Rafa pulled back. “I practice in the evenings,” he said. “You during the day, no?”

Roger nodded, his hand dropping from where it rested on Rafa’s stomach.

“Hey,” said Rafa. “Congratulations for Cincy.”

Roger looked away, a little abashed. “Thanks,” he said. 

Rafa hit his arm playfully. “Fifty titles. Pretty good,” he said.

Roger found himself uncharacteristically tongue-tied. “Thanks,” he said again, feeling foolish for the repetition, but not knowing what else to say. “So,” he said, grasping for something, anything. “Are you on your way to practice now?”

Rafa shook his head, hooking a thumb over his shoulder towards his suite. “No, not yet,” he said. “Just going to hang out, watch some TV for a while till it’s time to go to the courts.”

“Right,” said Roger. “Well, I got to go take a shower. It’s so hot out there, hotter than Cincy.”

Rafa’s face screwed up. “This is why you should practice in the evening, Rogi,” he said, smiling.

Roger saw the smile, and thought he saw something else in Rafa’s eyes. He could not tell. For such an expressive face, Rafa could keep his own secrets. “Maybe you’re right,” he said. “See you later, Rafa.”

Rafa cocked his chin in farewell and Roger closed the door. He leaned against it, the painted wood cool against his hot forehead, and the heat was not from practice alone. He was glad the room was empty, no one to see his distraction. Mirka was out shopping, enjoying New York after the backwoods of Cincinnati.

He had just turned away from the door, shaking his head at his own foolishness, when he heard a knock. He turned back and squinted out the peephole. Rafa stood there, his hands on his hips, one lip bitten between his teeth. Roger opened the door.

“Locked the key inside,” he said, apologetically. “It’s okay if I wait here? Xisca will be back soon.”

Roger opened the door wider, leaving room for Rafa to come into the room. “Sure,” he said. “Come in, watch TV while I go take a shower.”

“Thanks,” said Rafa. He trailed his fingers over Roger’s arm as he passed, and then flopped into the couch in front of the TV.

“Take anything from the bar, you know,” added Roger, gesturing over to the minibar by the window.

“Is okay,” said Rafa, waving a hand. “You don’t want to watch TV? You don’t smell too bad.” He grinned.

Roger laughed to cover up the heat he felt in his face. “I feel bad,” he said, pulling at his shirt to demonstrate how it stuck to his skin. “I won’t be long. I have to meet Mirka, soon,” he said, glancing at his watch.

When he looked up again, Rafa’s face had clouded and he had returned his gaze to the television. “Okay,” was all he said before turning it on and beginning to flick through the channels.

Roger could hear the TV from the bedroom while he undressed, some Spanish language channel Rafa had managed to find in the vast selection available. In the shower, he leaned the palms of his hands against the wall, water as hot as he could stand it beating down against his shoulders. He scrubbed the sweat and dirt of the day away and ignored the feeling pooling deep inside, the awareness that there was nothing but a wall between his naked body and a lounging, relaxed Rafael Nadal. He ignored the playful grin on Rafa’s face when he had asked him to stay, and the change in his expression when he mentioned Mirka. He ignored all of it.

Except that every time he let his mind wander he saw Rafa’s open, smiling face, felt his fingertips trail over the skin of his arm, heard the low, subtle suggestion in his voice. Roger leaned against the tiles of the shower and waited till the images subsided, waited till he was once more in control. He could always do it, in tennis and in life. He could always find that control.

When he emerged from the bedroom, clean and fresh and dressed smartly in his customary slacks, shirt and vest top, all he found was a note on the table, scrawled on hotel stationery. “Gracias!” it said. “À bientôt! Rafa.”

Roger folded it carefully and put it in his pocket. For the rest of the evening he found himself running his thumb along its edges, the words endlessly repeating in his brain until the meaning wore through and they said something else altogether.

 

He saw a lot of Rafa over the next day or two. They seemed to catch each other coming and going both at the courts and at the hotel. Sometimes they had Xisca or Mirka or others with them, and sometimes it was just the two of them. Roger was sure he read something in Rafa’s eyes those times, the dark, flickering thing that settled low in his belly and sometimes lower, an electric jolt that shook him till all he could do was turn away, go inside to his suite and sit for a while, eyes closed, talking himself down from the crazy ideas in his head. It made no sense, he told himself. None of this made any sense.

But sometimes, when Mirka was with him, he turned from talking to Rafa to find her looking at him with such a knowing smile that he had to look away, smooth his hair back, pull on the sleeves of his jacket, anything to distract himself. It was all nonsense, he told himself. He was imagining all of it. There was no other explanation.

On the afternoon after the Vogue party, he found himself talking with Rafa, Xisca, Toniand Mirka outside the locker rooms. Tonisaid something about dinner that evening, and he watched as Mirka accepted his invitation to join Rafa and his group. Tony, Xisca and Mirka arranged meeting up later in the lobby. Rafa said nothing, and did not take his eyes off Roger’s face the entire time.

At first Roger barely spoke at dinner. He thought that this was a mistake. It was one thing helping Rafa out with a plane ride, or when he locked himself out of his hotel room. It was another actually going to dinner with him. The press would say he was too close to Rafa, too friendly for a rivalry, that he was getting old and complacent. But another voice, a deeper, quieter one, didn’t care what the press said. Roger felt a glow of pleasure every time Rafa directed a look, a small smile his way. Soon he relaxed and enjoyed the food, the company, the place. By the time dessert came round, he was laughing and talking, his usual smooth self again. Rafa’s face lit up in response.

Afterwards, they strolled along Park Avenue back towards the hotel. It was not too busy at this hour. Xisca and Mirka walked side by side, and Toniwalked ahead with Rafa’s physio. Roger found himself walking beside Rafa. They trailed a few steps behind everyone else, shoulder to shoulder on the pavement.

“You know, Rogi,” said Rafa, contemplatively. “This is nice.”

Roger looked at Rafa’s face. “Yeah,” he said. “We meet up all over the world,” he continued, after a moment. “We can do this anytime.”

Rafa grinned. “I’d like that,” he said. There was something conspiratorial about the moment, something surrounding them like a bubble. They held each other’s gazes for two steps, three, before looking away. “Will I see you at kids’ day?” asked Rafa.

Roger nodded. “Yes, I will be there,” he said.

“Good,” said Rafa with a nod. “I think is better with two of us. Always better with two of us, no?”

Roger smiled, and bumped his shoulder intentionally against Rafa’s. Rafa looked at him again, that deep, penetrating look that Roger felt could see every thought in his mind. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Always better.”

 

That was the last quiet moment before the tournament began. He saw Rafa at the kids’ day, but always in front of the public and the press. And then, of course, the tournament began, and Roger could not afford not to concentrate on tennis to the exclusion of all else. This was a Slam, after all. Potentially his twelfth, and his fourth US Open in a row. By the third round, a week after their dinner, Roger knew the tournament was going well. He felt himself improving, his timing becoming more and more accurate, building up towards the final Sunday with every match. He knew that Rafa, too, was playing very well on the hardcourts, possibly better than Roger had ever seen him on an American surface. Playing as he played on clay, with no hesitation, running down every ball. The Cincinnati injury seemed to have been forgotten, and his knee was strapped but causing no problems. Roger kept an eye on Nolé, too. He would meet Rafa in the semis, if they both made it that far. Roger had little doubt that they would, the way they were both playing. Andy Roddick was also playing well, with more aggression than usual, coming to the net more often, flattening out his forehand a little. It seemed that the lessons learned in Cincinnati had sunk in. Roger knew this one would not be a walkover.

The order of each day changed depending on whether or not he had a match and, if he did, whether it was on early or late. He and Rafa were usually scheduled during different sessions so they rarely ran into each other. When they did they were surrounded by people and there was opportunity for nothing more than a brief greeting, perhaps some awkward posing for impromptu photo shoots. They both moved forward, round by round.

Until Saturday. The semi-finals. Rafa was scheduled against Novak Djokovic in the afternoon, and after their match, Roger would meet Andy Roddick. Roger had seen Andy play and he had done nothing but improve, playing with a new confidence in each match, beating Davydenko and Andy Murray en route to the quarterfinals, and then beating Marcos Baghdatis in an epic five-setter to make it to the semis. Roger knew he had a match ahead of him, probably the most challenging match he’d played against Andy so far in his career. He spent an extra hour on the practice courts that morning returning serve after serve. Practising hard against a right-hander, for once.

In the afternoon he sat in the locker room watching Rafa on the television. Watched him take Djokovic down with ease. Roger sat in awe of the power of his body, lashing returns back across the net when returns seemed impossible, whipping passing shots past the reach of Nolé’s racket, dropping neat little balls over the net while Nolé sprinted in from the baseline, always too late to reach them. Rafa’s eyebrows were knit in concentration, his dark eyes following every move that Nolé made. Rafa was always one move ahead.

Nolé looked shocked at match point, as if he wasn’t sure how the match had run away from him so easily. Rafa simply looked determined, his lips pressed together when he raised his hand and threw the ball to serve. Nolé barely even tried. An ace and it was all over, Rafa was through to the finals.

Roger stood up, hands in his pockets, and waited. He could see on the screen that Rafa was already on his way back to the locker room, rackets slung over his shoulder. He looked happy, but with an edge of determination that Roger recognised.

And then there he was, pushing open the door and storming in. He threw his racket bag on the bench and turned to Roger.

“Did you see?” he said, grinning.

“Yeah,” said Roger, smiling back. “I saw all of it. You were awesome, congratulations.”

Rafa nodded. “Yes,” he said, still smiling. Then, laughingly, “Gracias.”

The air seemed taut between them, snapping with Rafa’s energy. He was still bursting with it, didn’t even seem tired by the match. Suddenly he laughed and walked towards Roger, taking him into a tight hug.

It was overwhelming, the proximity of that powerful body he had just seen on the screen. Rafa was wet with sweat but Roger didn’t care, he pulled him in close. He found himself burying his face in Rafa’s shoulder, and then into the curve of his neck, and he smelled of sunshine, that deep, rich smell of summer. He felt Rafa’s skin against his mouth, tasted the salt of his sweat. Then came Rafa’s voice, a ragged whisper in his ear. “Rogi,” was all he said, but Roger could hear so much more. Months, maybe years of this, of this thing between them. Roger found himself standing with one hand cradling Rafa’s face, thumbing his lower lip, their mouths so close he could taste Rafa’s breath, hitching against his overheated skin. His other hand was on the base of Rafa’s spine, pressing their bodies close together, till he didn’t know if he was wet with his own sweat or Rafa’s. He felt Rafa’s fingers stroking through his hair, felt the stubble of his jaw against his own.

The voice in the corridor ran through them like electricity. They broke apart with a jolt just before Toniburst into the room, his face a broad smile, his voice full of gregarious congratulations, oblivious to the tension around them.

“Rafa, my boy,” he said, taking Rafa into a huge hug. Rafa watched Roger over his uncle’s shoulder as he half stumbled back towards the bench near his locker, hoisted his bag onto his shoulder and walked out of the dressing room. The court officials were waiting outside the door to escort him through the tunnel to Arthur Ashe. He glanced back at Rafa once before he stepped outside. Those eyes were still on him, dark and penetrating, and Rafa smiled, just a little, just for him.

 

The match was a disaster. At 5-4 down in the first he lost his serve and Andy took the set. He was broken in the second, too, and barely managed to break back before fighting through a tie-breaker to even the score. He could see surprise on Andy’s face at first, quickly followed by a rising determination in his eyes, a growing confidence. Weakness in Roger Federer was a rare thing and Andy could smell blood. Roger wondered what else he could smell. All he could smell was Rafa. All he could think about was Rafa. The feeling of his skin against Roger’s lips, the day old stubble against his jaw; his quickening breath and the feel of his open mouth against the pad of Roger’s thumb. It was overwhelming. Roger felt his mind fragment, his concentration splinter as his imagination followed over and over that path from Rafa’s shoulder to his neck to his mouth. Another second, and…

“Time,” called the umpire, and Roger felt himself dragged back into the third set, desperately double faulting to give Andy another break. The roars of the American crowd echoed in his ears. “Come on, Andy!” they screamed, deafeningly, with a lone Swiss flag here and there to buoy his spirits. The Spanish flag, left over from the previous semi-final, he tried to ignore.

He took the third by the skin of his teeth but then lost the fourth as once more his mind drifted back to those images, those feelings in the locker room. He could see Mirka’s face in the player’s box, the set of her mouth as she watched him struggle, concern etched on her features. But he could not even look at her for comfort in the middle of this whirling chaos; guilt weighed him down, slowed his arms, dragged his feet. He could barely play through his confusion. 

The crowd was shocked but elated, watching their man win, and Andy was playing with a grit Roger would not have believed him capable of till now. He knew that he was handing him the match. Andy had never had this kind of mental stamina against him before, but it seemed as if every time Roger failed to hit a winner, every time he failed to take the opportunities that arose, Andy’s determination grew stronger. Roger could see it in his eyes. Andy was sure of it: this time, he would beat Roger Federer.

Roger could not let that happen. Finally, in the fifth set, he managed to do what he should have done in the first. He marshalled his mind, blocked out every wandering thought, and focused solely on the man across the net. He forgot about Rafa, forgot about Mirka, forgot about the locker room. He played tennis.

Roger’s eventual, exhausted victory was soured by the score. He almost felt beaten. He slapped Andy on the back at the net and told him as much. Andy still wore an expression of amazement, though at this point Roger was not sure if it was amazement that Roger had managed to win, or that he had played so badly in the first place. He ground through the press interviews in a daze, repeating over and over in English, French and German that it was Andy’s form that had caused him to lose two sets, pointing out the improvements Jimmy Connors had wrought in Andy’s game. Whether or not it was a lie, he couldn’t really tell anymore. He just wanted to get out of there, into his car and back to the hotel where he could lie down, sleep, and forget this day ever happened.

 

Easier said than done. He arrived at the door to his suite just a few seconds after Mirka had gone inside, but in that few seconds Rafa opened the door to his own suite and stood there, leaning against the door frame. It was not too late, but he looked sleepy. It briefly flashed through Roger’s head to wonder if Rafa had been waiting up for him, despite the final the following day.

“Rogi,” he said, and Roger winced inwardly, remembering the last time he had heard that name.

“Hey, Rafa,” he said, and then, without pause, he continued. “You know, I’m really tired and I have got to go to sleep, so I see you tomorrow, okay? On the court.”

Rafa nodded. He looked almost too tempting, standing there barefoot, wearing old, worn jeans and a faded blue t-shirt. Roger felt a surge of desire just looking at him. Once more those thoughts came unbidden to the forefront of his mind; he knew how soft Rafa’s skin was, he knew the taste. He turned away, one hand reaching for the door handle.

“Is my fault, I think, Rogi,” said Rafa, quietly.

Roger paused, his fingertips resting on the lock. He did not look at Rafa as he spoke. “It’s not your fault, Rafa,” he said. “It’s just…” He sighed heavily. “Maybe it’s not such a good idea I see so much of you, you know?” He did look up then, just in time to see Rafa’s face harden. All tenderness had drained away.

“You think so?” said Rafa. His voice had hardened, too.

“Yeah,” said Roger. “You and me, we’re supposed to be rivals. This is not the right way to play tennis, be rivals.” Every word he spoke seemed to turn Rafa’s face to stone, and Roger found that he could handle those hard eyes much more easily than the eyes that saw through him. A distant, angry Rafa seemed infinitely preferable to the Rafa he had touched so tenderly in the locker room. “You think Bjorn Borg went out to dinner with John McEnroe?” continued Roger, goading Rafa now, intentionally distancing him. “You think Andre and Pete had sushi together on a plane? I don’t think so, Rafa.”

“You think Andre nearly kissed Pete in the locker room?” said Rafa. He said it evenly, with no trace of emotion. It was a challenge, not an entreaty. “This is different, you and me, no?”

Roger shook his head. “No,” he said, quietly. “Not different. It can’t be.”

Rafa said nothing. He simply remained leaning against the door frame, his body as loose and casual as ever, with those strong, muscular arms folded across his chest. He regarded Roger with a hard eye, and Roger felt as if he was being gauged somehow, as if he was being measured against the truth. He set his jaw and held Rafa’s stare, determined to hold his ground, to refuse to give in.

Rafa’s face, usually so open, was closed, unreadable. There was a smile on his lips that Roger had never seen before, a kind of half sneer that caught him in his gut. Rafa simply stared till finally, with a shrug of his shoulders, he spoke. “Fine,” was all he said, before stepping back into his suite and letting the door slam shut behind him.

Roger looked at the door blankly for a moment. There was no shadow at the peephole, nothing to indicate that Rafa even cared enough to see the expression on his face.

Good. That’s what he wanted. He turned back to the door of his own suite, swiped his keycard through the lock, and went inside.

That night he slept fitfully, an arm around Mirka, his face buried between her shoulder blades. He told himself that he was not thinking of other skin, other shoulders, but he knew it was a lie.

 

The following day came the final. He had finally slept properly, getting enough rest for the match ahead, but he knew that he was out of joint. His conversation with Rafa kept playing through his head, though he felt himself somewhat detached from it. Today was the final of the US Open. If he won today, he’d have won it four times in a row. It would be his twelfth Grand Slam title. One more closer to Sampras. He repeated these facts in his mind like a mantra until all thoughts of the sleepy, dishevelled Rafa he spoke to the night before were subsumed by the image of Rafael Nadal, the opponent he would face today across the net.

He saw Rafa briefly at the practice courts, but not within greeting distance. His form was looking good, thought Roger. Today would not be easy. No match against Rafa was easy, but he saw a sting in Rafa’s shots today. He didn’t allow himself to think of the reason why.

Four o’clock loomed and they waited close by, but they avoided each other’s eyes. This, at least, was normal before a final. In the presence of cameras and officials they stood, ready to come on court. Finally they were announced and they were there, on Arthur Ashe, the crowd yelling and clapping all around them. Roger took his chair and laid out his towel and his rackets just so. It was time to warm up.

Rafa avoided eye contact during warm up, but Roger put it down to nerves. It was his first US Open final. After Wimbledon, he must be determined to get a Slam other than the French, thought Roger, as much as Roger himself was determined to win Roland Garros. And so they settled down into the rhythm of the shots, waiting for the umpire to call time and the play to begin for real.

Which it soon did. The first few games were faltering, very little in the way of rallies as they settled into the tension of the day and the fast surface. It was not until the sixth game of the set, with Rafa serving to level the score, that Roger started to notice the changes. Subtle at first: the usual whiplash shots but followed up by hard, almost vicious looks. Rafa did not clench his arm when he won a point; there was no “Vamos!” echoing around the court. Rather, he would fix Roger with a glare, a surly scowl, a challenge in the tilt of his chin.

Roger found it unsettling. He had never seen Rafa play like this before, had never seen him play so very clearly _against_ him rather than with him. Slowly, point by point, Roger realised that Rafa was making this personal. He had not allowed last night’s conversation to be eclipsed by the importance of the day; rather, he was using it, filling himself with it, allowing his newfound resentment and rancour to add an extra kick to every shot, an extra scowl to every exchange. For the first time, Rafa was playing him as if he truly wanted to beat him.

Sitting between points after the seventh game, Roger wondered why it shocked him to this extent. So many matches were running through his head, so many finals just like this one, where the two of them played their best tennis not in order to beat each other, but to play great tennis. Each match was an endeavour undertaken between them, and though one or the other had to lose, the excellence of the play reflected on both. He thought of every time they met at the net, one having won, one having lost, their tender hugs and pats on the stomach, their half smiles; the happiness of victory tempered by the awareness of loss.

There would be no such ending to today’s match. Roger read Rafa’s signs loud and clear. He asked for a rivalry, and that was precisely what Rafa intended to deliver.

They ended the first set in a tie-break, the final rally lasting almost as long as one of their earlier games. Rafa’s stinging backhands forced Roger to race across the court, his forehands drove him back behind the baseline, and then a neat little cross-court drop shot left him miles away from the ball and left Rafa with the set. The intensely aggressive play continued in the second set, which Rafa also took, this time breaking Roger early in the set and refusing to allow him a chance to break back. He could hear a certain amount of consternation in the stands, as well as the habitual shouts of “vamos, Rafa!”. Rafa ignored them, stalking around the court as if he already owned it and the match was just a formality.

Roger began to feel the irritation rise and mutate into something else, something approximating Rafa’s anger. He stared at the scoreboard during the changeover. Two sets down. This would not do. He took his position at the baseline, for the first time deeply irritated by Rafa’s delay in settling his water bottles, fixing his socks, and picking at the back of his pants. He let the irritation seethe and waited for the serve. When it came, he was ready.

He was now playing with that same strength that Rafa had mustered, meeting his challenging glares with stinging serves out wide to his backhand, then putting away a forehand in the deuce court for easy points. Rafa’s annoyance at the strategy rose every time he used it, so he did it more. When Rafa began to expect the tactic and stood out wide to receive, Roger brought his serve into the centre of the court. On Rafa’s serve he took each ball early, sending it back with interest. He felt invincible, the shots coming to him now as he trusted they would. He took the set six-four.

Rafa was ready for him in the fourth, pulling on his indefatigable reserves of grit to challenge Roger on every point. They again took it to a tie-break, Roger finally scraping by with eight-six. It was close. Rafa’s smouldering determination was now like a physical thing, and Roger met it with his own cooler sense of indomitable certainty. The final set became a battle. The crowd were picking up on their energy, every shot now greeted with cheers and screaming, and more than once the umpire had to ask for silence to allow play to continue.

Rafa served first, so he led the way through the set. The battle raged. Neither fighter was flagging; adrenaline and sheer stubbornness kept them playing at their very best, point after point, game after game. Finally it was Roger’s serve, four-five in the fifth. As he threw the ball into the air, the silence was deathly.

Into the net. Second service, and Roger felt it coursing through him, his energy, his refusal to bow out. But then, again, into the net. Double fault. Love-fifteen, and a triumphant gleam in Rafa’s eye. A tiny chance, but a chance nevertheless, and Roger did not doubt that he would capitalise.

They battled it out to deuce. To and fro they went, all of their energy now focused in this one game, each refusing to let the other win more than a point or two in a row. First one would pull out to advantage, only to be dragged back to deuce by the other, who would then take advantage until he in turn was brought back to deuce. And so it carried on, point after point after point, till Roger felt he had played every shot in his repertoire and then some. He kept pushing against the burgeoning exhaustion in his body, kept his feet light and his racket moving, kept challenging every shot Rafa made.

And then, somehow, it wasn’t enough. Rafa lobbed a ball high over his head, bouncing before he could reach it, so he tried a last-ditch shot through his legs. It landed squarely in the net. Rafa had the advantage and Roger could feel his energy ebbing away. He could see it in Rafa, too, the grinding exhaustion of this match, this duel fought between them.

And then, returning his next serve, a passing shot from Rafa. Roger watched it sail by him, his racket out at full stretch but still missing, the crucial extra fraction of a centimetre just not there. It took Roger a moment to realise it. Rafael Nadal had won the US Open, and he, Roger Federer, had lost.

The sound around him rose to a crescendo as the crowd got to its feet to cheer wildly for Rafa, who had fallen to the ground in exhausted victory. As he pushed himself up again, he walked towards the net, and Roger, in a daze, found himself walking, too. Their greeting was nothing like those that had gone before. The briefest touch, the utterance of a few inaudible syllables; they had nothing more.

The ceremony seemed to pass in a blur. Roger barely knew how he marshalled his own thoughts enough to be able to speak at the presentation of trophies. Each step he took, he took as if in a dream. His eyes never met Rafa’s, and Rafa made no effort to catch his. He heard the jubilation in Rafa’s voice when he spoke, but barely registered the words.

It was the emptiest moment he could remember.

The press said, “It had to happen some time,” and Roger laughed inwardly. What did they know? They said, “It was a vicious fight. Do you resent losing your title to Rafael Nadal?” And Roger said that he could not have lost it to someone who deserved it more, and inside, away from the scrutiny of cameras and journalists and flashing light bulbs, he realised the truth of it. Rafa deserved this one because Roger had been the one to throw it all away.

 

The hotel room seemed desolate this evening. It was late and he had drawn the curtains against the night. He sat on the couch, his bare feet propped on the table. There was a line where the top of his socks should have been between his brown legs and white feet, the legacy of following summer around the world to play tennis.

Mirka came in from the bedroom, wrapped in her plush robe, the hotel’s gold monogram adorning the pocket. It reminded him of his own monogram at Wimbledon, the golden RF of which he was so proud. Even that seemed empty now.

“Are you hungry?” she asked him, curling up beside him on the couch. 

He wrapped an arm around her and nuzzled her hair. “No,” he mumbled. She smelled clean and fresh, of shampoo and perfume. 

“Sleepy?” she asked.

He shook his head. “No,” he said again.

She took his hand in hers, winding her small fingers around his large ones, running her thumb across his palm. “Such calluses,” she said, quietly, almost musingly. She looked at the palm of his hand, trailing the tips of her fingers along the raised skin, hard and dry from gripping the racket. She looked up at him, her expression gentle in the soft light of the room. “My poor Roger,” she said, and she was not talking about the calluses.

“I’ll be fine,” he said. 

There was something unfathomable in her eyes when she shook her head. “I think it’s different this time, don’t you?”

He stared at her blankly, something causing the skin on the back of his neck to prickle, the colour to rise in his cheeks. “Different?” he said.

“Mmm,” she replied. She leaned up to kiss him softly on the lips. “Go talk to him, Roger,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper. “He’ll be waiting.”

Roger froze. “Who?” he asked. It was impossible to believe that she might have known all this time. That he hadn’t imagined that look in her eyes when they spoke to Rafa, that knowing smile.

Mirka smiled like that now. “You know who,” she said. She disentangled herself from his arm, pulling away from him. “I see the way you look at him,” she said. “I know what you think. It’s okay, Roger.” She ran her hand through his hair, pushing it back, away from his eyes. “I used to play tennis, you know. I know how it can be.” He raised his eyebrows as the implications of that sank in, and she laughed. She stood up, pulling his hand to follow her.

“Go,” she said, looking up at him.

He leaned down and kissed her. “I love you,” he said.

“I know,” she replied, as he turned towards the door.

 

He stood there in the doorway, black button-down shirt, jacket and those faded old jeans. Roger didn’t remember knocking. Rafa’s eyes were dark and sullen, telling him nothing.

“Rafa,” said Roger, and somewhere between his mind and his mouth the word broke and he could barely speak it.

Rafa said nothing, but he did not close the door.

“Can I come in?” said Roger. “I mean, if you are not, you know, busy, going out or something. You look like you are going –”

“Shut up, Rogi,” said Rafa flatly, stepping backwards into the room and holding the door open for Roger to follow.

The room was a mess. Rackets were piled onto an armchair by the television, and Rafa’s bags and gear were strewn across the floor over by the windows. It looked like someone had meant to lay them out for packing but had instead thrown them there and walked away.

“You should be celebrating,” said Roger. 

Rafa was pacing around the room, toeing off his shoes and kicking them towards the piles of clothes by the window. “Yeah,” he said, darkly. “I should. All others are.”

Roger did not know what to say. He scrubbed his face with his hands. It was all too much, now that he was here. Rafa looked tired, his eyes betraying the hurt of last night, the effort of the day. The thought of what he had said the night before came crashing in on him. They had come so close, so close in that locker room, and then one lousy match and he had thrown it all away. “I’m sorry,” he said. It came gushing out before he knew what he was saying. “I’m so sorry, Rafa. It wasn’t your fault yesterday. It was me, I was distracted, after…” He trailed away, his eyes closed, one hand on the back of his neck. “After the locker room, all I could think about was you, and I nearly lost the match, you know? I thought, if I can stop thinking of you, I can win the match.” He shrugged. “Didn’t work today, I think.”

Rafa still looked sullen but Roger could make something out, a certain curve to his mouth that no one else would notice, a softness to his eyes. “No,” he said. “Didn’t work.” If there was a hint of pride in his voice, Roger could not be sure.

The silence hung between them until Rafa shook his head impatiently. “You were wrong, Rogi,” he said. “You think you choose tennis, but you don’t. You don’t win the match. Play unbelievable tennis but don’t win the match. You choose wrong, no?”

And Roger couldn’t disagree. He shut his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Yeah,” he said, his voice catching in his throat. He let his hand fall to his side. “I don’t know how to do this, Raf. That’s why I get it wrong.”

Rafa stared at him for a moment, his dark eyes shining in the soft lamplight. Then he took a step, two, and he stood in front of Roger, so close that Roger’s skin tingled at the proximity.

“Like this,” said Rafa, as he slid his hand along Roger’s jawline and held it there, his thumb on his cheek, at the corner of his mouth. His own hands found Rafa’s body, holding him there as if to anchor himself, as if he could be lost. And after what seemed like an age, his eyes half shut and his breath already ragged with need, Rafa leaned towards him and they kissed, their mouths and bodies melting together with the release of so long waiting, and Roger finally, finally felt his control slipping away, and he did not care.

Rafa kissed hungrily, holding Roger tight against him, and after a little time Roger’s hands began to pop the buttons on Rafa’s shirt, one by one, till it hung open to his waist. Rafa leaned back and shucked the jacket and shirt to the ground, and then pulled Roger’s t-shirt over his head and threw it on the couch. He pulled them back together, skin against skin, and Roger could feel the power of Rafa’s body against his own. It took his breath away. Rafa kissed along his jawline and down his neck, and Roger gasped at the sensation of his mouth just there, his stubble rasping against Roger’s own. Rafa began to push him towards the bedroom, nudges of his body against Roger towards the bed.

They lay sprawled on top of the covers, Rafa stretched out over Roger, and Roger could feel him hard and ready through his pants. Roger felt the same and yet they took their time, each long, languid kiss melting into the next one, Rafa’s lips skimming over skin, teeth against nipples, rolling over so that Roger could explore Rafa’s body in the same way. He was glorious, his tanned skin tasting of honey and that deep down smell of sunshine that Roger would always associate with Rafa. He licked his way from collarbone to nipples – a shiver spread through Rafa’s body, a whimper lost between throat and lips – and down almost to his waistband, pressing kisses along his taut stomach, down the trail. Roger could feel it, Rafa’s cock hard inside his pants, and as he returned to Rafa’s mouth he slid a hand between them and opened his fly, pushing his pants away, as Rafa did the same to him. He rolled them over as their bodies pressed together, blindingly, overwhelmingly, kicking away their clothes, and then at last they were naked, flush, cocks pressed together between them.

Rafa leaned on his elbows, his eyes glazed and a smile on his mouth. “See, Rogelio?” he said, punctuating the question with a kiss. “It’s easy, no?”

Roger smiled, running his hands down the length of Rafa’s muscular back, his fingers following the dip of his spine. He sighed blissfully as he palmed the roundness of Rafa’s ass. “Yeah, it’s easy,” he said. “Hey, I was stupid, I know it.”

Rafa grinned, his face lighting up, and Roger felt the last shreds of his doubt fade away. Anything that brought the light to Rafa’s eyes, anything at all, and he would do it. “Rogi,” sighed Rafa, bringing their mouths together again.

Their impatience was palpable but they kept it slow, learning each other as the night wore on, learning every taste and touch and every desperate sound. It was almost worth the months of waiting, thought Roger, when he could form coherent thoughts at all. It was worth it to build up to this crescendo of need and desire, this explosion of sensation that brought with it every tiny thing he had never allowed himself to imagine about Rafael Nadal. The feel of that powerful, pliant body against his, the taste of his mouth and skin and cock, the feel of him inside, his face so broken and open and desperate when he came, gasping and panting.

And finally, when it was all over, when they were both spent and boneless and their last lingering kiss had faded away, Rafa curled around Roger and, quietly, happily, they fell asleep.

 

The morning found them lying there still. They had moved in the night, and Roger woke with his hand splayed across Rafa’s stomach, his face against the powerful shoulder of his left arm. His left arm, thought Roger abstractly, before all thought of tennis was chased away by the fact of the morning, this morning, wrapped around Rafa. Thoughts of the previous night swam in his head, a mixed-up jumble of images and tastes and sounds, and it seemed utterly incredible that he had never woken up like this before.

“I can hear you thinking, Rogi,” murmured Rafa sleepily.

Roger smiled. “You’re awake?”

“Mmmph,” came the reply, as Rafa turned over, pushing Roger back against the pillows and snuffling against him, his arm heavy across Roger’s chest and his face pushed into the curve of his neck. Their legs were entwined under the covers.

Roger stared at his sleepy face, his eyes closed and hair dishevelled. He gently pushed some strands away from Rafa’s eyes. Now, in the half light seeping in from closed curtains and the aftermath of last night’s euphoria, he could not help but wonder how this would work. Could he play tennis, really play to win, when he knew the next day they would wake up like this? When he loved the look of delight in Rafa’s eyes, loved the sound he made when he came, hot and breathless against Roger’s skin?

Rafa rubbed his eyes, slowly blinking awake and returning Roger’s stare. “I know what you are thinking,” he said. “You are thinking, how can we play tennis?”

Roger huffed out a laugh. “Yeah,” he said.

“We play tennis like always,” said Rafa, his eyes drifting shut again. “Play unbelievable tennis, is what we do, no?”

Roger nodded, his cheek resting against Rafa’s forehead. “What about Xisca?” he asked quietly, almost afraid of the answer.

It was Rafa’s turn to laugh. “Xisca say last night for me to stay here,” he said. “She say, stay here, Rafa, Roger will come. I think is okay.”

Roger raised an eyebrow. “I think we both have interesting girlfriends,” was all he said.

Rafa nodded. “Mmm,” he murmured. “Good.”

Roger couldn’t help but agree. And they stayed like that, entwined in each other in the warmth of the morning, drifting lazily back to sleep.


End file.
